Down
by wtfisaverage
Summary: He's a lost, wounded soldier and she's trying to reclaim the most precious thing she's ever lost.
1. Chapter 1

**Down**  
by wtfisaverage

Sam came back wrong. After two tours in Iraq, Ohio didn't make sense. Everything in Ohio was noisy and chaotic, but not in a way he understood. There were no schedules or commanders telling him where to go, what to do… who to be. Sam could shoot. He could break into any building and rescue civilians. He knew how to be a soldier. He accepted that to a select few he was a hero, but what he didn't know how to be was home. Once he got shot in the shoulder, the army pinned a star on him, packed him up and sent him back to Ohio.

It would've been fine if Sam had a family or an address. When Sam enlisted, he'd been 18 with an ID. There were no emergency contacts because there was no one to call. He'd been on his own since he was sixteen. He bunked with a few friends and stayed under the radar until he earned his diploma. The army was his only plan. He figured if he joined the army, he would belong to something. He would fight for his country and if he was lucky die for it. He never wanted to come back.

He didn't want to be this. A week had passed since he left the veterans army. His bandages were old and he was running out of cash. He had no more medication and had a slight fever. There wasn't enough money left for another night at the motel and whatever remained had to be used for food. He started walking and scoping the streets for places that looked warm and remotely accessible for the night. Passing an Italian restaurant, Sam saw a flier for a new exhibit at the local museum. It was a memorial exhibit for war veterans and entry was free for current and veteran National Reserve. Sam's interest peaked when he saw it was open until 9 pm which was late enough for him to find a hideout and sleep for the night inside the museum.

He changed into a hoodie and cap to look inconspicuous. His hair had grown past his ears and he had a slight beard. The worker at the ticket booth gave him a dubious glance, but allowed him in after a few moments of glaring at his ID and tags. The inside of the museum let him escape his worries for a bit. The fossils entranced him and the astronomy exhibit had him feeling like a starry-eyed, slightly feverish kid. It was light, fun, and informational. He was distracted and entertained by the videos feeding him facts. He burned to try the activity centers, but knew that would draw too much attention.

The WWI and II veterans' memorial was simple. It began as a hallway filled with mannequins dressed in uniform lined at attention on each side. Behind them black and white film images of war played.

They told him in the hospital to be careful of triggers. Certain sounds and images could send him mentally spiraling back to Iraq. He didn't feel that. The images of combat, the drawn faces of victims, the camaraderie between the soldiers, all of it made him sad. It grounded him deep into his reality. He was alone. He was alive and he had to live somehow. He went to the theater and sat for hours, letting the sounds of war lull him. Finally, when the crowds around him thinned and credits rolled on the last film, Sam ducked into a nearby closet. Once the museum closed, he went back to the veteran exhibit to a far corner where a life-sized dugout was built. Checking around, Sam didn't see any cameras. The museum still used the low tech noticeable ones that made sure people knew they were being watched. Crouching low like the children he'd seen earlier, Sam crawled inside using his good arm. With his legs tucked in for warmth and his back pack as a pillow, Sam fell asleep knowing the ghost of his brothers in arms kept him safe.

* * *

"I swear people are so nasty," Mercedes grumbled as she swept up the theater in the auditorium.

"Mercedes," her manager, Sarah, yelled down, "I'm going home for the night. Davis is here doing the night watch and he knows to look out for you. Please remember to lock up and do be extra careful to make sure the bathrooms are spotless. I heard a little boy had an accident earlier."

Rolling the eyes of her soul, Mercedes kept a straight face, managed a tight smile and said, "Sure, Sarah. No problem." Mercedes needed this job. It had taken a long time to get here and while being a night janitor was never in her plans, it was a step in the right direction. She needed the money and the stability. If she could show the state of Ohio she was responsible, maybe they'd let her see her son.

"Do not dwell, Mercedes," she ordered herself. "Just get through this shift and those bathrooms." Shuddering, she went to tackle the nastiness that was the museum at night.

On her break, she wandered through the museum looking at the exhibits. Her new favorite was the veterans' memorial. Being at the museum late at night, she had to entertain herself someway, so she flirted with the different mannequins.

"Well, hello Sergeant Johnson. You're looking well today," she greeted one. Giggling, she traipsed to another, huskily saying, "Corporal Mayes, I had a fantastic time the other night. We'll have to do that again sometime." Laughing at herself, she continued down the line until something caught her eye.

"What the hell," she mumbled to herself, walking towards the dugout. Mercedes could have sworn she saw a hand. Trying not to get too close in case Freddy, Jason or Dracula was in there, she leaned in and sure enough a hand was peeking out of the edge of the dugout. Not even contemplating getting down low to peek in, Mercedes went to the nearest closet and got a short ladder. Climbing up, she peeked over the edge and saw him.

He was dirty, scraggly, wounded and sleeping. He was balled up tight. His hair covered his face in oily, dirty strands. The hoodie had fallen from his wounded arm. She saw the filthy, brown bandage and could only imagine the infection spreading on that arm. Continuing her perusal, the dog tags around his neck let her know he was a soldier.

"Hey Mercedes," Davis the night security guard greeted her from the end of the hallway. Climbing down, Mercedes greeted the pot-bellied, balding brown man with bifocals.

"How are you, Davis?" she said, coming to stand in front of the dugout and blocking the exposed hand. She plied the guard with small talk as she frantically searched for an excuse to get Davis away from the sleeping soldier.

"Um, Davis," she asked, "do you mind walking me down to the basement for more bleach? I swear that basement's haunted, but I can't clean the bathrooms without it."

The old man agreed and the two made their way to the basement while Mercedes fought not to look back. When they came back upstairs and the guard left to finish his rounds, Mercedes ran to her locker. Grabbing her lunch bag and a few dollars, she went to the break room and the vending machine. Penning a quick note, she stuffed as much as she could inside the lunch bag and made her way back to the dugout. As quickly as possible, she bent down and pushed the bag inside the dugout. Then striving to put the soldier from her mind, she did the only thing she could do. She went back to work.

* * *

The security guard's whistling woke Sam. Even feverish and sweating, Sam didn't make a sound. He stayed as still as possible until the footsteps passed him and the hall was quiet for a few minutes. Stretching his body, he bumped into a lunch bag.

He began to sweat. He didn't want to open it. He didn't want it near him for so many reasons. Iraq taught him the most explosive bombs come in innocent packages. Baby carriages don't hold babies; they hold enough chemical to tear down a building. The lunch bag also let Sam know his location was exposed. Someone knew he was here. Someone invaded his space while he was vulnerable. His face was moist and dripping. Sam took deep breaths to calm down when he saw the note tucked into a side pocket.

The note read:

**Hi,**

**I'm the night janitor here and I saw you sleeping. Please don't worry. I'm the only one who saw you and I won't tell anybody. I left you some food and Advil to help with your arm. I wouldn't sleep in the dugout too long. The gallery preservers come in first thing in the morning, but there's a bunk bed in the basement. It's in a room in the back. No one goes there but me. I left the key in the bag. Take care of yourself. **

** -M**

Still a little wary, Sam unzipped the lunch bag. Reaching in, he grabbed the bottle of pain relievers and used his teeth to undo the cap. Dry swallowing three capsules, Sam used his good hand to explore the bag.

_Whoever M is should have packed for me in Iraq_, he thought pleased with the offerings. It wasn't much. It was only a few strips of jerky, almonds, a sandwich, fruit cups and trail mix, but it wouldn't spoil and it was high in protein. Feeling around the bottom of the bag, Sam found the key.

Hearing footsteps, Sam silently crouched low with his eyes on the opening.

"Come on, Miss Mercedes, I'll walk you out." Sam saw the security guard leading a young woman towards the door.

"Thank you, Davis," the curvaceous, brown woman replied. Sam couldn't see her face, but her voice was lovely. "You're a hero to all girl night janitors everywhere."

The old man cackled, "And how many do you know?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, "One so far. I guess that makes you my hero. Good night."

For a second, Sam glimpsed her. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore plain clothes, black sweater jacket, t-shirt and jeans with sneakers. Her eyes were big and she bit her lips.

As Sam allowed himself to fade into brief unconsciousness before he found the bed in the basement, he thought the army was right. Sometimes, angels do come to save you.

A/N: Practicing and getting some ideas out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Down Chapter 2**

Leaving the soldier bothered Mercedes. She tried to go home and relax, promising herself she would check on him the next day, but it felt wrong. As she sat beneath her covers, too tired to wrap her hair, she started to feel haunted by ghosts and fears that had everything and nothing to do with the soldier sleeping in the museum. He was just so wounded, poor and alone. "No one should be that alone," she mumbled into her cup, her first drink in six months.

Her loneliness began the day Mike enlisted. He was her Asian high school sweetheart, the boy who loved her and touched her from the inside out. His smile was everything and he could dance like no one she'd ever seen before. He made gravity look like a lie and physics was fiction when he performed. Above all, he loved his smile. No matter what happened around them or whatever he was doing, he saved a smile just for her. "It's because looking at you never fails to brighten my day, 'Cedes," he told her a dozen times. Their problem was money. There was none for college and Mike dreamed of enlisting in the Army to help pay for school. "I'll be able to make some money, get my education, come back and marry my girl," he told her when they lay together, bodies entangled in the backseat of his old car. Mike was a year ahead of her in school and his senior year flew by. The next thing she knew, they were at an enlistment center. He was hugging her and saying goodbye while she choked on the words announcing her pregnancy.

It was too hard to say.

It's why she didn't tell her mother until she started showing. It's why she couldn't tell him in any of the letters she sent or the few phone calls she received.

_I'm pregnant, Mike. We're having a baby._

The deafening lack of support bruised her spirits. Her mother was too ashamed to help a statistic. Her friends judged her for keeping her baby. Even her body betrayed her by being too slow to keep up in gym, too tired to study, and too busy growing a child to stay in school. Mike was far away and the communication was too infrequent to make her feel his love. Sure, her mother came to the hospital when the baby was born and she held little Isaiah and played with his toes and fingers. Yet, she made sure to say, "You better make a way to feed and take care of him. I ain't babysitting and I'm not supporting a child I didn't have. You laid down and created him. You take care of him."

Fine. She works two jobs to afford food, diapers and a babysitter. She cries at night because she can't afford to buy her baby shoes, but her mother wants help with the bills.

Fine. She takes up a night shift cleaning motel rooms and brings her baby to work. The skeleton crew doesn't tell on her. They let her keep him in a spare room from time to time. It's been two months since she's heard from Mike and Isaiah resembles him more every day. She loves her baby more than anything. His baby smell comforts her and his smile at the sight of her comes directly from his father. Sleeping, however, is hard because struggling has sapped her of energy.

Fine. She drinks alcohol to help her wind down. Why not? It works for her mother. Isaiah can crawl now and keeping him still during her night shift is not so easy.

Surviving off three hours of sleep a night is okay until the day she falls asleep. During her 15 minute break, she lies on the bed with him cuddling him close for a nap. That way she can finish her shift in peace while he sleeps. This is supposed to be quick, so she doesn't close the door. She has him in her arms, running her fingers through his baby curls and breathing in the scent of his baby powder. All she does is close her eyes. She didn't mean to fall asleep.

A police officer wakes her up. He's standing next to her manager, Paul. They tell her Isaiah crawled out of the room. He's fallen down a flight of stairs. He's alive, but badly hurt. The doctor isn't sure if the damage to his head and body was permanent. The Department of Children and Families would not let her hold him or see him alone. She could not take him home. On April 15th, two weeks before the anniversary of Mike's enlistment, the courts placed her child in foster care.

Spiritually, she was wounded. Her heartbreak felt physically real and her loneliness absolute. Nobody should be left with no one to turn to in times of need. No one should be that alone.

Sighing, Mercedes placed her drink down on the nightstand. Running her fingers through her curls, she came to peace with her decision. She was going to help him. Whoever that soldier was, she was going to help him get to a better place.

Getting out of bed and grabbing her keys, Mercedes began trying to figure out how.

* * *

Though his vision began to blur, Sam found the bed in the basement. His arm was sore and he knew his fever worsened despite the aspirin he took earlier. Lying on the cramped, musty spring mattress was a relief.

To entertain himself, Sam thought of his curvaceous, brown savior. _I'll call her Ms. Pretty_, he thought, smiling at his own whimsy. Sam was an equal opportunity lover. He liked what liked him, but she looked like a nice handful. Holding his throbbing arm, Sam wondered if she would like him if he only had one arm. "Oh yeah, I'm such a catch," he laughed hysterically, "horny, hungry, homeless and now handicapped to boot." His laugh quickly turned into a cough. Shuffling to get comfortable, Sam wondered what she thought of him. He certainly knew what he thought of her. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Sam began to sing an old song that came to him. He sang:

_You are so beautiful to me_

_You are so beautiful to me _

_Can't you see?_

_You're everything I hoped for_

_You're everything I need_

_You are so beautiful _

_To me_

Closing his eyes, Sam gave into his fever, but held on to the thought of Ms. Pretty.

* * *

Shaking her head at her impulsiveness, Mercedes pulled up to her job. "I am so going to be fired for this," she muttered under her breath as she went towards the back entrance. Squaring her shoulders and practicing her story if she was discovered, Mercedes walked up to the door. The day janitor was always leaving his key when he went for a smoke. To prevent from being locked out, he kept a spare under a handful of gravel covered by the milk crate he sat on during his break. Uncovering the spare key, she let herself into the building. Too afraid to turn on the lights, Mercedes tried to make her way in the dark. Crossing the basement, Mercedes saw of the sleeping soldier on the bed. He was shivering with fever. She took a step into the room when she knocked into a pail filled with cleaning supplies.

"Shit," she cursed, as the clanging noise seemed to echo in the building. Holding still, Mercedes winced as she listened for any oncoming footsteps. Looking towards the bed, she gasped to see it empty. Searching for the soldier, she looked to see him under the bed with his hands covering his head.

Holding her arms out, she said to him, "I'm here to help."

"_Help," was all Sam heard. In his head, he was back overseas. He heard the bomb go off and found cover liked he'd been trained. Feverishly straining to make sense of what was happening, Sam saw Ms. Pretty standing there. "Help," he heard again. Didn't she hear the bomb? He had to get her out of harm's way._

"We have to get you out of here," Mercedes said to the zoned out soldier. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was damp with sweat. Thankfully, she saw him start to come out from under the bed.

_Gathering his flagging strength, Sam knew he had to get her to safety. "I'll save you Ms. Pretty," he said to her. Adrenaline pushing his overheated body, Sam crawled out and tried to stand._

Mercedes rushed over to help him up. Pulling his arm over her shoulder, she said to him, "We have to get to my car. I'll take you to a hospital."

_Sam forced his body to move forward. He pushed his pain to the side and focused on his objective: get Ms. Pretty to safety. _

As Mercedes led them to her car, she heard him saying, "I'll get you to safety, Ms. Pretty. I'll save you." Figuring his delusion was the only thing keeping him moving, she fed into it, "That's right. I need you to save me soldier. Help me get to the car." To her amazement, he straightened and carried even more of his own weight. His arm tightened across her shoulders and he moved forward with pained purpose. "I'll save you," he said again, determination overtaking the weakness in his voice.

With difficulty, they made it to her car and sat him in the passenger seat. As she drove, he looked at her with unseeing eyes, feverishly repeating, "I'll save you, Ms. Pretty. I'll save you."

_A/N: meh, I'm still finding a flow. Thanks for the support._


	3. Chapter 3

**Down, Chapter 3**

"Hello! Earth to Mercedes." Mercedes woke from her daze as a hand waved in front of her face. Looking up, she gave a tired smile to her two classmates, Kurt and Santana.

"Hey guys," she greeted them as they took their seats at her table. Kurt was a dashingly skinny guy with a boyfriend he couldn't help dropping into every conversation while Santana was a Latina princess with a girlfriend she saved for every other conversation. The three of them met and became friends in night school for adults. All of them worked towards the same goal of gaining their GEDs.

"What's happening, chica?" Santana asked, leaning in for a small hug.

Mercedes wanted to tell them about the soldier from the last night, but she hesitated. When she pulled up to the hospital, the soldier was barely coherent. She ran towards his side of the car and opened his door. Grabbing his right arm, Mercedes tried to pull him out of the car. He wouldn't budge. Reaching up, she turned his sweaty face to hers and caressed his face. Trying to find some semblance of comprehension in his green eyes, she spoke slow and clearly, "Help me. We have to get you inside. Help me."

Somewhere deep down, he heard her. Groaning in pain, he moved from the car, but his strength must have given out because he fell. Mercedes caught him and struggled to help him up. Not knowing what to do, she yelled for help. What she couldn't forget was his arms encircling her and holding her and his whisper in her ear before the doctors and nurses came for him.

He said, "Please don't… leave, Ms. Pretty."

She left him, though. She had to go back to the museum and erase any trace of him being there. She retrieved his bag and made sure the extra key was put back in its place. She tried going back to the hospital to check on him, but he was still in surgery. Then, the sun came up and Mercedes had to force herself to commit to her day. She had a meeting with her counselor at nine, a short shift at her second job at noon and school at six. She shouldn't have had time to think of him, but she couldn't forget him. Instead of sleeping, she went through his bag trying to understand her mystery soldier. The X-Men comic book made her giggle. His sketchbook filled with heroes, characters and what she suspected were friends or fellow soldiers impressed her. She didn't look through all of it nor did she empty the full contents of his bag. What she truly searched for was in a side pocket. It was an ID with a clean shaven, short haired, green eyed man with a charming smile.

"Sam," she said aloud, "your name is Sam Evans."

Now, back in her class she struggled with how to explain these feelings to her two friends. She could have asked them how could she help Sam and maybe she would in the future. Instead, she said, "Nothing much" as she returned Santana's hug because she knew the answer. Right now, all she could do was give Sam the support she always wanted from a friend.

* * *

Sam woke up groggy and disoriented. Immediately, he saw the hospital room and knew he was under the influence of drugs. Gathering his senses, Sam worked to understand what bothered him. It was the absence of pain. For the first time since being shot in the shoulder, his left arm wasn't bothering him. He peeked down at it.

"No," he said in disbelief, reaching across his body with his right hand that was taped with monitor wires and an IV. His left arm was gone. They'd taken it. He rubbed his eyes, fighting tears. Many soldiers lost limbs. He'd seen it personally. _But how am I supposed to survive_? The thought echoed in his brain. It was hard enough to be in his circumstances, but now life just felt impossible.

"Good, you're awake," a soft voice said from the doorway. Sitting up straighter, Sam eyed the petite blonde doctor at the doorway. "I'm Dr. Fabray," she said, coming over to the bed. "I performed your surgery. I understand it's a huge adjustment, but it comes down to a decision between saving your arm and saving your life. When you arrived at the hospital, your arm was already infected and the infection was killing you."

_I wish you had let me die_. He didn't say the words, but both of them felt their weight in the room. Sam did have one question. "How did I get here?" he asked.

"The nurses say a woman brought you. That's all I know," Dr. Fabray told him. "A nurse will be here soon to check your vitals."

* * *

Mercedes struggled with her composure as she walked into the hospital. The nurses were nice once she explained who she was there to see. Finding Sam's room, Mercedes took a deep breath and walked inside. He appeared to be sleeping.

The first thing she saw was his arm or the absence of it. She felt sad for him, but no pity. Never pity. She'd brought him an Avengers balloon and his backpack. She sat in the visitor's chair and contemplated her soldier.

An hour passed and she brought her chair closer. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand. His hand was so much bigger than hers. She couldn't help but feel small when she clasped his palm. Unwilling to let awkwardness make her let go of him, she began to whisper her feelings to him.

"I always wanted a hand to hold," she said quietly. "I just wanted to know someone was there. Do you know it's impossible to hold your own hand? You can pat yourself on the back and even hug yourself, but you can't hold your own hand. It's like one hand will never fit inside the other." Sighing, Mercedes felt ashamed. "You'll have to forgive me, Sam. Here I am babbling about holding my own hand, when you sit here like this. I'm not always the brightest, but I'm here. I want you to know that even if you don't know who I am. I'm still here."

She reached out her other hand and held his hand with both of hers now. Looking up at his face, she saw his eyes were open. After her whispered confession, she didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure how much he heard.

Sam felt helpless and worse, hopeless. He had nothing, no money, no family, nothing that made a man a person and now he had one arm. He had to be nothing in front of her.

It was Sam who cut the prolonged silence with his own confession. "Why you? Why do you have to see me like this, Ms. Pretty?"

Mercedes didn't know if she should be offended or if she was unwanted. Apart of her was glad he "remembered" her, but he didn't sound happy to see her. _Should she leave? _Her instincts told her no. Her heart told her to be honest. "Because I won't leave unless you make me," she told him, unable to meet his eyes. "My name is Mercedes, by the way."

"Sam. I heard you say my name. Look, I can't … talk," Sam said to her. Between his arm and his history, Sam was tied up verbally. "I'm not… I don't…I just can't."

Mercedes nodded, eyes firmly on the sheets. When she felt his hand moving within hers, she prepared herself to leave.

"Don't," he whispered. Finding her fingers, he finished interlocking them.

_Don't leave me, Mercedes. I don't want to be alone_.

Eyes on hers, he saw her understand him. It was enough. That look kept sadness from engulfing him. It saved him from the darkness. It wasn't complete and it wasn't for forever, but Sam knew he would survive the moment with her here.

A/N: you guys are awesome. I appreciate the support.


End file.
